Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

A dinner, yesterday, of wits,

  Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter,

  Had the scraps for perquisites.

  A CORRECTED REPORT OF SOME LATE SPEECHES.

  1834.

  “Then I heard one saint speaking, and

  another saint said unto that saint,”

  St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth,

  That he wouldn’t give sixpence to Maynooth.

  He had hated priests the whole of his life,

  For a priest was a man who had no wife,1

  And, having no wife, the Church was his mother,

  The Church was his father, sister and brother.

  This being the case, he was sorry to say

  That a gulf ‘twixt Papist and Protestant lay,2

  So deep and wide, scarce possible was it

  To say even “how d’ ye do?” across it:

  And tho’ your Liberals, nimble as fleas,

  Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease,

  ’Twas a jump that naught on earth could make

  Your proper, heavy-built Christian take.

  No, no, — if a Dance of Sects must be,

  He would set to the Baptist willingly,3

  At the Independent deign to smirk,

  And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk;

  Nay even, for once, if needs must be,

  He’d take hands round with all the three;

  But as to a jig with Popery, no, —

  To the Harlot ne’er would he point his toe.

  St. Mandeville was the next that rose, —

  A saint who round as pedler goes

  With his pack of piety and prose,

  Heavy and hot enough, God knows, —

  And he said that Papists were much inclined

  To extirpate all of Protestant kind,

  Which he couldn’t in truth so much condemn,

  Having rather a wish to extirpate them;

  That is, — to guard against mistake, —

  To extirpate them for their doctrine’s sake;

  A distinction Churchman always make, —

  Insomuch that when they’ve prime control,

  Tho’ sometimes roasting heretics whole,

  They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

  Next jumpt St. Johnston jollily forth,

  The spiritual Dogberry of the North,4

  A right “wise fellow, and what’s more,

  An officer,” like his type of yore;

  And he asked if we grant such toleration,

  Pray, what’s the use of our Reformation?

  What is the use of our Church and State?

  Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe and Rate?

  And still as he yelled out “what’s the use?”

  Old Echoes, from their cells recluse

  Where they’d for centuries slept, broke loose,

  Yelling responsive, “What’s the use?”

  1 “He objected to the maintenance and education of clergy bound by the particular vows of celibacy, which as it were gave them the Church as their only family, making it fill the places of father and mother and brother.” — Debate on the Grant to Maynooth College, The Times, April 19.

  2 “It had always appeared to him that between the Catholic and Protestant a great gulf intervened, with rendered it impossible,” etc.

  3 The Baptist might acceptably extend the offices of religion to the Presbyterian and the Independent, or the member of the Church of England to any of the other three; but the Catholic,” etc.

  4 “Could he then, holding as he did a spiritual office in the Church of Scotland, (cries of hear, and laughter,) with any consistency give his consent to a grant of money?” etc.

  MORAL POSITIONS.

  A DREAM.

  “His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to

  find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage

  had been so long,” etc. — Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial

  Slavery, March 8.

  T’other night, after hearing Lord Dudley’s oration

  (A treat that comes once a year as May-day does),

  I dreamt that I saw — what a strange operation!

  A “moral position” shipt off for Barbadoes.

  The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes,

  Packing the article tidy and neat; —

  As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes

  “Moral positions” don’t keep very sweet.

  There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass;

  And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing,

  There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it “Glass,”

  Tho’ as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting.

  The freight was however stowed safe in the hold;

  The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic,

  While off in the good ship “The Truth” we were rolled,

  With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic.

  Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made;

  For “The Truth,” at all times but a very slow sailer,

  By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed,

  And few come aboard her tho’ so many hail her.

  At length, safe arrived, I went thro’ “tare and tret,”

  Delivered my goods in the primest condition.

  And next morning read in the Bridge-town Gazette,

  “Just arrived by ‘The Truth,’ a new moral position.

  “The Captain” — here, startled to find myself named

  As “the Captain” — (a thing which, I own it with pain,

  I thro’ life have avoided,) I woke — lookt ashamed,

  Found I wasn’t a captain and dozed off again.

  THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET.

  FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT.

  1832-3.

  ‘mutantem regna cometem.”

  LUCAN.1

  “Tho’ all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail,

  “Tho’ Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us,

  “We’ve still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail; —

  “Last hope” of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us?

  “No— ’tis coming, ’tis coming, the avenger is nigh;

  “Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters;

  “One whisk from that tail as it passes us by

  “Will settle at once all political matters; —

  “The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers,

  “(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols; —

  “Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours

  “Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy’s what-d’ye-calls!

  “Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock,

  “Meet planets and suns in one general hustle!

  “While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock

  “That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell.”

  Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised,

  His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set:

  And tho’ nothing destructive appeared as he gazed,

  Much hoped that there would before Parliament met.

  And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro’ his glass,

  “Ha! there it is now,” the poor maniac cries;

  While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas!

  From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies: —

  “Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big!

  “Whether Bucky2 or Taurus I cannot well say: —

  “And yonder there’s Eldon’s old Chancery wig,

  “In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.

  “I see, ‘mong those fatuous meteors behind,

  “Londonderry, in vacuo, flaring about; —

  “While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind,

  “Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt.


  “Ah, Ellenborough! ‘faith, I first thought ’twas the Comet;

  “So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale;

  “The head with the same ‘horrid hair’ coming from it,

  “And plenty of vapor, but — where is the tail?”

  Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated —

  For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed,

  Which he took to be Cumberland, upwards translated,

  Instead of his natural course, t’other road!

  But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken, —

  Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and grimaces,

  Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken,

  And is now one of Halford’s most favorite cases.

  1 Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of administrations.

  2 The Duke of Buckingham.

  * * * * *

  FROM THE HON. HENRY —— , TO LADY EMMA —— .

  Paris, March 30,1833.

  You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma’amselle,

  How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;

  And the truth is, — as truth you will have, my sweet railer, —

  There are two worthy persons I always feel loath

  To take leave of at starting, — my mistress and tailor, —

  As somehow one always has scenes with them both;

  The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,

  She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney, —

  Till sometimes, in short, ‘twixt his duns and his dears,

  A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

  But to come to the point, tho’ you think, I dare say.

  That ’tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,

  ‘Pon honor you’re wrong; — such a mere bagatelle

  As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears;

  And the fact is, my love, I’m thus bolting, pell-mell,

  To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;1

  This deluge of coronets frightful to think of;

  Which England is now for her sins on the brink of;

  This coinage of nobles, — coined all of ’em, badly,

  And sure to bring Counts to a dis-count most sadly.

  Only think! to have Lords over running the nation,

  As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;

  No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,

  And tadpole young Lords too in every direction, —

  Things created in haste just to make a Court list of,

  Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!

  The prospect’s quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose

  (My particular friend) says is perfectly true,

  That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,

  ‘Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he’s to do;

  And Sir George even doubts, — could he choose his disorder, —

  ‘Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.

  This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,

  ‘Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma;

  And tho’ I confess myself somewhat a villain,

  To’ve left idol mio without an addio,

  Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan

  I’ll send you — some news of Bellini’s last trio.

  N.B. Have just packt up my travelling set-out,

  Things a tourist in Italy can’t go without —

  Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant’s shop,

  Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.

  Small presents for ladies, — and nothing so wheedles

  The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles.

  A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened

  To think one knows Latin, when — one, perhaps, doesn’t;

  With some little book about heathen mythology,

  Just large enough to refresh one’s theology;

  Nothing on earth being half such a bore as

  Not knowing the difference ‘twixt Virgins and Floras.

  Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,

  And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

  HENRY.

  1 A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time.

  TRIUMPH OF BIGOTRY.

  College. — We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car.” Dublin Evening Post, Dec. 20, 1832.

  Ay, yoke ye to the bigots’ car,

  Ye chosen of Alma Mater’s scions;-

  Fleet chargers drew the God of War,

  Great Cybele was drawn by lions,

  And Sylvan Pan, as Poet’s dream,

  Drove four young panthers in his team.

  Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is,

  Thus, studious of a like turn-out,

  He harnesses young sucking dunces,

  To draw him as their Chief about,

  And let the world a picture see

  Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry:

  Showing us how young College hacks

  Can pace with bigots at their backs,

  As tho’ the cubs were born to draw

  Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw,

  Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift,

  Bright spirits whom, in days of yore,

  This Queen of Dulness sent adrift,

  As aliens to her foggy shore; —

  Shade of our glorious Grattan, too,

  Whose very name her shame recalls;

  Whose effigy her bigot crew

  Reversed upon their monkish walls,1 —

  Bear witness (lest the world should doubt)

  To your mute Mother’s dull renown,

  Then famous but for Wit turned out,

  And Eloquence turned upside down;

  But now ordained new wreaths to win,

  Beyond all fame of former days,

  By breaking thus young donkies in

  To draw M.P.s amid the brays

  Alike of donkies and M.A.s; —

  Defying Oxford to surpass ’em

  In this new “Gradus ad Parnassum.”

  1 In the year 1799, the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, thought proper, as a mode of expressing their disapprobation of Mr. Grattan’s public conduct, to order his portrait, in the Great Hall of the University, to be turned upside down, and in this position it remained for some time.

  TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

  Scripta manet.

  1833.

  ’Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,1

  In letters four and letters three;

  And ne’er did the King of the Gulls go by

  But those awful letters scared his eye;

  For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said,

  “As long as those words by man were read,

  “The ancient race of the Gulls should ne’er

  “One hour of peace or plenty share.”

  But years on years successive flew,

  And the letters still more legible grew, —

  At top, a T, an H, an E,

  And underneath, D. E. B. T.

  Some thought them Hebrew, — such as Jews

  More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use;

  While some surmised ’twas an ancient way

  Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day

  Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias,

  Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)

  And proved in books most learnedly boring,

  ’Twas called the Pontick way of scoring.

  Howe’er this be there never were yet

  Seven letters of the alphabet,

  That ‘twixt them formed so grim a spell,
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  Or scared a Land of Gulls so well,

  As did this awful riddle-me-ree

  Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

  * * * * *

  Hark! — it is struggling Freedom’s cry;

  “Help, help, ye nations, or I die;

  “’Tis Freedom’s fight and on the field

  “Where I expire your doom is sealed.”

  The Gull-King hears the awakening call,

  He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all,

  And he asks. “Ye noble Gulls, shall we

  “Stand basely by at the fall of the Free,

  “Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?”

  And they answer with voice of thunder, “No.”

  Out fly their flashing swords in the air! —

  But, — why do they rest suspended there?

  What sudden blight, what baleful charm,

  Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm?

  Alas! some withering hand hath thrown

  The veil from off that fatal stone,

  And pointing now with sapless finger,

  Showeth where dark those letters linger, —

  Letters four and letters three,

  T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

  At sight thereof, each lifted brand

  Powerless falls from every hand;

  In vain the Patriot knits his brow, —

  Even talk, his staple, fails him now.

  In vain the King like a hero treads,

  His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads;

  And to all his talk of “brave and free,”

  No answer getteth His Majesty

  But “T. H. E. D. E. B. T.”

  In short, the whole Gull nation feels

  They’re fairly spell-bound, neck and heels;

  And so, in the face of the laughing world,

  Must e’en sit down with banners furled,

  Adjourning all their dreams sublime

  Of glory and war to-some other time.

  1 Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny, — for which see Westminster Abbey.

  NOTIONS ON REFORM.

  BY A MODERN REFORMER.

  Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass

  By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches,

  The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas!

  It has caused between Wetherel’s waistcoat and breeches.

  Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity

  Had oft broken out in that quarter before;

  But the breach, since the Bill, has attained such immensity,

  Daniel himself could have scarce wisht it more.